THE THUNDER WHICH IS SILENCE
by moira of the mountain
Summary: Five years since he's seen her - but not a day she's not crossed his mind. How could he not be there for her now, just as he'd always been.
1. Chapter 1

THE THUNDER WHICH IS SILENCE

Chapter One

He could have worn a proper Wyoming gentleman's clothes - gotten himself all pressed and brushed, with a pearl buttoned shirt, a string tie as perfectly looped as any lariat, and a mirror shine to his courting boots. That would most likely be the more fitting thing to be done when setting out to call at the door of a Prairie Avenue mansion.

He'd brought all those things with him, wanting to do things right so whoever answered that door would know he wasn't just some puncher from the yards. Hadn't she always teased him when he got all gussied up on a Saturday night, wanting to know which pretty girl's heart he was planning to set awhirl? And hadn't he always grinned and said that he was only passing time until the right girl realized what a fine and handsome fella he was?

When it came time, though, he'd decided against all that and worn what suited him best – the dove-gray hat that had sheltered him as faithfully as any roof could ever do, the well-weathered boots that slid into his stirrups as easily as a handshake between old friends – and the work-battered coat that could have told a thousand Shiloh stories if it's stains and mends could speak. It seemed to him that was how she should see him after so many years – if she saw him at all.

~~ / ~~

Agnes Mehan had about run out of even the smallest measure of patience, not that she'd ever been blessed with an overabundance to begin with. There were absolutely no circumstances that would persuade her to be civil to even one more wary-eyed bank detective. It was only God's grace that at least the ferrety Tribune reporters who had plagued the family for nigh on a month had finally left them in peace. She had a household and a staff to shepherd and the Farrell family's beleaguered guests weren't to be badgered any further if she had her say. The housemaids were far too meek to stand their ground. Whoever was resolutely knocking at the front door would get a personal dose of her temper and be sent packing in no time flat.

This particular whoever appeared to be quite a different breed though from what she'd been anticipating. Tall and wide-shouldered, he was, and handsome enough in a raw-boned, rough-edged kind of way, with at least the grace of manners to stand with his hat properly in hand. She'd seen plenty of the likes of him, what with the Chicago beef trade thriving as it was. The truth of it was she rather liked the honest look of western men with their weathered faces and far-away eyes – they reminded her of the boys from back in Camanreagh. Still, this one hardly seemed the sort to be standing at the door at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon unless of course he had an appointment. If that were true, she'd send him off to the Exchange where he should have gone to begin with. She had no doubt that Mr. Farrell was far too sensitive to the young miss's fragile state of mind to be conducting any business at the house even now.

"Young man," she stated "if it's himself you're looking for, you'd best be going to his office. There's no visitors expected here and none being welcomed. If you've been sent here by mistake, I'll ask you to wait here on the porch and I'll write the address for you." She made to shut the door, only to be prevented by a calloused hand offering a gentle but firm resistance.

"Ma'am, you'll pardon me but I'm not here on business, at least not the way you might mean."

There was a quiet certainty in the man's voice that caused Mrs. Mehan to hesitate and study him more closely. Despite the boyish look of him, he wasn't quite so young as she'd first guessed. Mid thirties perhaps, with a faint tracing of lines around his eyes and mouth that spoke of frequent laughter and a generous nature. There was a hint of sadness in his clear blue eyes, though, that she suspected had been earned more than once.

"What is it you're wanting, then, lad. I've told you that the Farrells are not receiving. No one in this house is receiving," the housekeeper asserted.

Releasing his hold on the door, the man reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a neatly folded section of newsprint. Mrs. Mehan could make out an unfamiliar banner that declared the paper to be from somewhere called Medicine Bow and below that a headline.

i"Former Shiloh Owners Involved In Tragic Robbery"i/

"I've come to see Mrs. Grainger and Miss Elizabeth. I'd appreciate if you'd tell them I'm here. Tell them, ma'am that it's…"

Behind her in the entrance hall, Ms. Mehan heard a sound that was half gasp and half sob.

"Trampas… Oh sweet heaven… I never thought…"

Before she could even grasp its meaning, the tall cowboy stepped past her and she turned to see Mrs. Holly Grainger, tears spilling down her cheeks, wrapped in the man's strong arms as he carefully steadied her.

"It's alright, Mrs. Grainger, I've come to take you both home."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Everything around him felt too small. The brittle feel of Holly Grainger's shoulders under his hands when she'd briefly sagged against him, the tastefully appointed sitting room that ramrod of a housekeeper had steered them into, the china coffee service some fluttering little banty hen of a parlor maid had put in front of him – they all felt far too small.

Sizing up the room, determinedly trying not to pace, he noticed a set of French doors that would open onto a terrace and the gardens beyond. Autumn had already flung a fading carpet of leaves over the walkways and the fountain had been silenced for the season. Still, out there he'd at least have the surety of honest ground under his boots and some piece of sky to fix on while he asked the questions that were needed and heard whichever answers were possible.

"Mrs. Grainger, could we talk outside? I'm feelin' a bit like some clod-footed plow-horse in here and I'm probably about as welcome. I don't think that housekeeper's any too happy with me being anywhere near this fancy furniture," Trampas said, with as much of a smile as he could find to offer. "Not exactly the Shiloh study, is it?"

Reaching for the heavy shawl that lay draped across the back of a nearby chair, she crossed to where he stood and reached up to gently touch his cheek.

"Trampas, how long have we known one another?" she asked, the tiniest of smiles brightening her face.

"Well, now, there's the three years – almost four - that Mr. Grainger and you ran the place," he replied with a questioning frown. "And then, your letters after you left, keeping us all up to date on all your doings. We sure watched for those and Virginian's got them all safe - says they're part of the ranch's history." A stab of pain clouded his eyes and he turned his head, not wanting her to see. "The one about Mr. Grainger and Stacy, it's tucked in that big Shiloh bible, the one with all…" With an effort, he focused on the ticking of the mantel clock before turning back to face her, forcing his expression into something that wouldn't hurt her. "So, I guess I'd like to say it's been nine, maybe ten years."

"And in all that time, have I ever called you Mr. Trampas?" she pressed on.

"Well, no ma'am, but why would you?" he answered. "I was one of your hands – no reason you'd call me Mister. Usually, anybody calls me Mister's lookin' to cause some sorta trouble or pretend they've got something important to say. So, no, just Trampas, always have been…"

"I won't have it all one-sided like that, not anymore," she firmly interrupted. "Trampas, you've been Shiloh's finest and the Virginian's true friend - and ours too, one of our dearest and best. We've always thought the world of you, and now, with all that's happened, I'd like you to call me Holly, not Mrs. or ma'am. Trampas and Holly, old friends, that's what I'd like. Clay and Stacy would have both agreed on that and Elizabeth, she'd absolutely insist if she…"

As swiftly as prairie fire, sorrow and fear suddenly swept across Holly's face.

Bending to retrieve the shawl that had fallen to the floor, Trampas carefully wrapped it around her and turned her towards the doors to the garden.

"Mrs. Gr.. Holly… it's going to be a little cold but let's go outside anyway," he urged. "I need you to tell me the parts that weren't in the newspapers and I want you to be able to cry and cuss and yell if you have to, without anyone minding your business. Come on, now. I don't see any horses around that would suit either of us so we'll have ourselves a walkin' talk… between old friends."


End file.
